XVII


The next day Ernest wrote a letter of more or less superficial
tenderness to Ethel. She had wounded his pride by proving victorious in
the end over his passion and hers; besides, he was in the throes of
work. When after the third day no answer came, he was inclined to feel
aggrieved. It was plain now that she had not cared for him in the least,
but had simply played with him for lack of another toy. A flush of shame
rose to his cheeks at the thought. He began to analyse his own emotions,
and stunned, if not stabbed, his passion step by step. Work was calling
to him. It was that which gave life its meaning, not the love of a
season. How far away, how unreal, she now seemed to him. Yes, she was
right, he had not cared deeply; and his novel, too, would be written
only _at_ her. It was the heroine of his story that absorbed his
interest, not the living prototype.

Once in a conversation with Reginald he touched upon the subject.
Reginald held that modern taste no longer permitted even the
photographer to portray life as it is, but insisted upon an individual
visualisation. "No man," he remarked, "was ever translated bodily into
fiction. In contradiction to life, art is a process of artificial
selection."

Bearing in mind this motive, Ernest went to work to mould from the
material in hand a new Ethel, more real than life. Unfortunately he
found little time to devote to his novel. It was only when, after a good
day's work, a pile of copy for a magazine lay on his desk, that he could
think of concentrating his mind upon "Leontina." The result was that
when he went to bed his imagination was busy with the plan of his book,